The March of Time
by Angeliz
Summary: A series of snapshots over a decade or so following the final duel. From the perspectives of Marik, Jou, Mokuba, Anzu, Ryou, and Honda. Life goes on, even after everything. Life always goes on. Oneshot, unless I decide to expand on it.


Another oneshot. Which I wrote instead of typing my 7-8 page research paper. Which is due in five days. Ay... See what I go through for you people? I hope you appreciate it. Haha, anyway, anyway.

This is a handful of reactions to the Pharaoh's leaving/dying/whatevering from the not-so-main characters. It's supposed to span a number of years, beginning from just a few minutes after the Yami/Yugi duel and extending until about ten years or so after it. Nothing is concrete, really (okay, except Jou's), but they advance over time in the order they've been written. I did have one from Yugi in here, too, but that was before I decided that I didn't want any main character input. If you're really curious, I might tack it on in another chapter, but I didn't feel like it fit with the rest of them so I took it out. Sorry, Yugi, but there are already plenty of fics about your possible reaction.

Argh, but I'm blathering again. I'll stop now. Please read and review! Angeliz out.

…

Marik feels as if he can finally breathe, and at the same time is too paralyzed to do so.

He is free. His family is free. For the first time, his life stretches ahead of him like a blank canvas, completely void of the smothering clouds of fate and duty. The years upon years of underground tunnels and secret rituals have ended, and he can decide what he wants in the world, what _he _wants instead of what tradition dictates.

His father is dead, the Pharaoh is dead. The wounds on his back have become distant scars. He can finally live in the light, his family alongside him. They are free.

Free.

The word tastes good on his tongue. He says it again, and again, whisper gathering strength in the warm desert winds.

…

Jou feels strange.

He is vaguely aware of a certain sense of loss, a friend gone away to never return, another of those strange curveballs life tends to throw. It hangs unspoken in the cabin of the airplane, though he has trouble identifying its weight on his chest. The silence makes him uncomfortable, though, so he pounces Honda, who seems profoundly relieved beneath his apparent irritation. Everyone laughs and rolls their eyes at the scuffle, a normal sound, a normal gesture. Life goes on, after all; life goes on.

Jou still feels edgy as the plane touches down. Reaching for comfort, his mind locks on Mai, her gentle curves and wild eyes like springtime in his heart.

…

Mokuba pauses in the midst of a practice exam to glance at his brother.

He's been different these last few months, quieter, more subdued. Nobody else notices, for outwardly Seto is the same icy businessman as ever, but he can't hide from his brother. Mokuba always notices, even when he pretends he doesn't. It is a bond from somewhere deep in their childhood, and a series of memories from the past.

When they lost their parents, Seto threw himself into his schoolwork, and then into raising Mokuba when it became clear that no one else would. When they lost their childhood, becoming Kaibas, he threw himself into his designs and ideas and blueprints. And when Seto lost his innocence, he threw himself into KaibaCorp.

Mokuba knows that his brother is currently absorbed in this new Duel Academy idea of his. It is a big project, well-researched, intricate, riddled with red tape. It requires hours upon hours of work and more work. It indicates loss somewhere in Seto's soul.

The loss of his only real friend, though he never quite admitted it to anyone, including himself. Including his brother. Because that is how Seto is, and it is not in his nature to change.

Mokuba sighs and returns to his homework.

…

Anzu looks into the mirror and realizes that she is miserable.

Lovely, in pristine pointe shoes and a gossamer skirt, but miserable all the same. She looks like a rather depressing photograph, some study in grace and disgrace, the contrast between perfection and dismal reality. A dancer in a dreamworld finally finding truth.

She drops her arms, stills the steps, her fingers pressing against her eyelids as if to force back tears. She cannot cry. Not when her dreams are coming true, her lifelong dreams that reach from a time before the boy. Oh, the boy, the boy she thought she loved, and the boy she hadn't realized she loved. Not until it was too late and both had gone forever.

And now here she is.

Anzu isn't happy, not really. The people here look at her as if she's stupid when she stumbles over their language or messes up conversions. The people here are loud and pushy, nonstop in their rush to be better, smarter, faster, and then to become obsolete within months. The people here are nothing, just smoke and mirrors and cockroaches.

She sobs, chokes it back, presses knuckles to her mouth until they bleed. And then positions her body carefully, flowerlike, beneath fluorescent lighting.

She dances.

…

Ryou has been staring out this window for years.

Not literally, no (he actually hasn't been institutionalized in over a decade, now, and how about that?), but over the course of his life, in bits and patches. He realizes that he has been doing so with a frequency that is nearly madness, though not quite, for he remembers quite well what madness really is.

There is nothing particularly special about the window. He likes it, though, likes the streetlight in the darkness and the cool morning glass against his forehead as his wife murmurs sleepily from their bed.

Ryou loves his wife, loves her silky black hair and soft lips, her gentle smile and dark eyes. He loves her lilting voice, her gentle embrace, yet still he finds himself here, night after night, staring out the window into the darkness. Somewhere in the back of his mind he is mourning unspoken his fallen spirit, the forgotten devil of his dreams. None of the others ever cared, honestly, and he doesn't suppose he can blame them. It was a difficult time for more than just him.

Still.

His wife stirs behind him, half-rising, sheets pooling at her waist. Come back to bed, she tells him, and he turns from the glass to behold her drowsy smile. He loves her, he does, more than life itself.

But even now, he can't figure out if he's moving on or simply pretending.

…

Honda doesn't really think about high school.

He grew up, moved to Osaka, became a cop. Finally did something about his ridiculous hairstyle. He doesn't like to remember what came before. It bothers him, sometimes, that odd itch for adventure when he's trying to file reports, that sense of loss as he sits in his apartment with only a scotch for company.

He shrugs it off now, and flicks on the television. He doesn't believe in magic anymore.

…

Fin. Oh, and just so you know: my mind-reading powers are currently under construction. You'll have to leave a review if you want me to get your opinion. Sorry for the inconvenience. (Insert smiley face here.)


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